Department 19

by William Hill

  Jamie slid the T-Bone smoothly out of its holster, brought it to his shoulder in one fluid motion, and pulled the trigger. The stake shot out of the tube and crunched into the vampire’s chest, punching a circular hole through the flesh and bone, before retracting on its pneumatic wire. Before it thudded back into the barrel, the vampire exploded in a gaudy shower of blood and gristle that pattered softly onto the thick carpet of the staircase. Jamie kept the weapon in his hand and crept toward the first stair.

  Movement caught his eye, and two more vampires dropped from the high, shadowy ceiling onto the staircase. Jamie’s mind, clear and cold as ice, did the math quickly.

  One stake in the T-Bone. Two vampires. No time to fire it twice.

  With his left hand, he drew the MP5 from his belt, slid the selector switch to full auto, and sprayed the staircase from left to right with bullets. The rounds tore through the knees of the vampires, dropping them writhing to the ground. He replaced the submachine gun in its holster, transferred the T-Bone to his left hand, drew the stake with the rubber grip with his right, and sprinted up the stairs. The three movements took less than two seconds, and out in the Playground one of the watching soldiers drew in a sharp intake of breath. Jamie reached the vampires, who were screeching and howling on the rapidly reddening carpet, and plunged the stake into their chests, one after the other. He stepped back quickly, and when they exploded, only a light mist of blood sprayed against the body armor on his chest. He turned on the staircase, checking behind him, and saw a fourth vampire, this one a woman in a beautiful flowing ball gown, speeding silently across the hallway toward him. He dropped the stake, drew the T-Bone to his shoulder, led the running vampire by a few feet, and fired.

  The stake slammed through her heart, obliterating it.

  This time the explosion was smaller, almost petite, and she was gone before the metal cable was fully rewound. Jamie reached down and picked up the stake, placed it back in the loop on his belt, and made his way up the stairs.

  Terry allowed himself a small smile. Standing against the wall, watching the teenager’s progress on a bank of monitors that had been raised from the floor of the circular room, a soldier whistled softly through his teeth.

  “He’s good,” he said, shaking his head admiringly.

  “He’s better than that,” said the soldier next to him. “He’s a natural.”

  A sharp laugh, like the bark of a dog, echoed through the room. The two soldiers turned and looked at Major Harker, who was watching one of the monitors with his fists clenched tightly by his sides.

  “The hallway is child’s play,” said the major, his eyes never leaving the screen. “Let’s see how he does in the garden.”

  But Jamie passed through the garden, an overgrown labyrinth of ivy and oak trees, without any trouble. He used his weapons in perfect combinations, never allowing a vampire within ten feet of him, staking and moving, disabling them from long distance with the pistol and the MP5, identifying the primary threat in each situation and dealing with it first. He moved along the narrow stone paths cautiously but not slowly, never presenting a stationary target that the vampires could surround. When the garden was clear, he kicked open the door of the crumbling stone shed that stood next to the garden’s gate and went inside.

  It was dark, so he pulled a thin black torch from his belt and swept it quickly across the room. Against the back wall, no more than eight feet away from him, the beam picked out the pale face of a girl, her fangs clearly visible as triangular points of white, and he drew the MP5 and fired a volley of bullets ten inches below where he had seen the face. Something screamed in the darkness, and he brought the torch back up and shone it against the rear wall. The girl’s face was still where it had been, although now it hung limp against her chest, blood coursing from its mouth. He stepped forward, widened the beam, and was surprised at what he saw.

  The girl was in her late teens, and she was fixed to the wall by heavy handcuffs around her wrists and ankles, in a deeply uncomfortable-looking spread eagle. The bullets from his gun had turned her chest to dark red jelly, but she was still alive, and as he approached, she raised her head and howled at him. Jamie took a half step back, despite himself, then pressed forward as the girl’s head slumped back down.

  He shone the torch along each of her limbs to the handcuffs. She was chained at full stretch; there was no way she could apply any leverage to the bolts and free herself. Even so, Jamie drew the stake from his belt, raised it above his shoulder, and stopped. The wounds in the girl’s torso were already starting to heal, and Jamie decided he would leave her. She was no threat to him secured to the wall, and killing something that was immobilized, even a vampire, felt like murder. Instead he left the shed and walked through the wrought-iron gate that led out of the garden.

  He worked his way through the rest of the grounds of the mansion, luring two vampires down a narrow alley between two garages and spearing them both with a single T-Bone shot, a kill so audacious that a spontaneous round of applause broke out in the Playground until it was silenced by a ferocious look from Major Harker. Jamie stepped lightly over the fans of blood the vampires left on the walls, made his way across a courtyard toward the estate’s main driveway, and only at this late stage, did he feel the cold fingers of fear grab at him.

  The driveway was wide enough, but it was flanked by two towering rows of trees, the branches of which met high above, forming a dark green tunnel. As Jamie began to walk down it, he was reminded of the approach he and Frankenstein had made to the Loop, but when the branches began to move and rustle, he was plunged back into the night his father died, and terror threatened briefly to overcome him.

  But this was a different situation. He had been powerless to do anything about the things that had crawled through the branches of the oak tree; here, that was not the case. He ripped the MP5 from its holster and sprayed the branches of the overhanging trees with bullets, fire spitting from the end of the gun’s barrel. He fired it empty, reloaded, and fired it empty again. Five vampires fell from the branches, hitting the ground bone-breakingly hard, their bodies peppered with holes and spewing blood. Jamie walked methodically across the driveway, staking each vampire in turn. He walked down the driveway toward an ornate metal gate marked EXIT, and was about to grasp the handle when a searing pain tore into the left side of his neck. He looked down at his chest and saw with amazement that blood was coursing down it in rivers. Jamie turned slowly around and stared into the face of the girl from the shed. She was looking at him with blazing red eyes, full of triumph, and as he reached for his T-Bone, she blurred, then disappeared, along with the rest of the simulated world.

  Suddenly, everything was dark, and Jamie fought back panic. One of his hands flew to his neck and felt only slick, sweaty skin and the bottom of the helmet he had forgotten he was wearing. He shoved it from his head and squinted under the bright lights of the Playground. He looked down and saw Terry staring up at him, his face full of open admiration. He turned and saw the crowds of watching Blacklight soldiers and staff staring up at him, and as he looked blankly at them, one soldier began to clap. The applause was taken up throughout the line of spectators, and soon it had become a deafening roar, punctuated by cheers and congratulations. Jamie allowed a smile to creep over his face, allowed it to widen when he saw Major Harker, his face as dark and ominous as a thundercloud, striding away from the crowd and toward the nearest exit.

  Jamie climbed down from the platform and was nearly flattened by a thumping pat on the back from Terry. The instructor’s face was full of pride, and Jamie looked away, embarrassed. Terry helped him remove the armor and the simulated weapons, then stepped in and gave him a quick rib-crushing hug that lifted him off his feet.

  “Did I do all right?” Jamie asked. “I thought I failed.”

  “Everyone fails the first time,” replied Terry. “Everyone. Most don’t make it out of the house, never mind the garden. And you only failed because you showed compassion. It was misplaced,
but it was admirable.”

  “Thanks,” said Jamie, grinning widely now.

  Behind him, the crowd was beginning to disperse. The men and women of Blacklight made their way around the walls of the Playground toward the various doors, many shaking their heads at what they had seen, several smiling in his direction, offering thumbs-ups and silent claps. None of them approached him, and Jamie thought he knew why; down here, Terry was the boss, not Admiral Seward, and they would not interrupt the student and the instructor.

  Jamie watched them leave, then felt a sickening burst of pain in his kidneys as a fist slammed into his side. He crumpled to the ground, rolling over as he did so, and found himself looking up into Terry’s smiling face.

  “Get up,” the instructor said.

  17

  THE BLACK SHEEP

  Jamie turned off the shower and stepped out from under the water. Terry had dismissed him a little over half an hour ago, and the teenager had fled gratefully for the soothing drumming of the hot water on his stretched, beaten skin. He was covered in cuts and bruises, and his limbs felt as heavy as concrete. But despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, he felt invigorated; his mind was racing even as his body begged for rest.

  Jamie dried himself with a towel, then walked out of the shower block and into the changing room. His clothes were piled on one of the benches, but there was something hanging above them, something that hadn’t been there when he had run for the shower thirty minutes earlier. He looked around and saw that there were also two metal cases on the bench to his left. Stepping forward, he examined the dark object hanging above the damp ball of training clothes and then took a sharp breath.

  It was a Blacklight uniform.

  The jumpsuit was jet black in the fluorescent light of the changing room, the lightweight matte material reflecting nothing. Taped to the front of it was a handwritten note.

  Put this on.

  Jamie did so, stepping into the legs of the suit, sliding his arms down the sleeves, pulling the zip up to his throat, then fastening a flap over it. The uniform was incredibly light and cool; the material conformed to the contours of his body, and as he moved his arms and bent and dipped his shoulders, there was not a whisper of noise of fabric folding or rubbing against itself. He walked excitedly across the room and stood in front of one of the long mirrors.

  He barely recognized himself. Even with his gray socks poking out beneath the legs of the suit, he looked like a different person; a young man, rather than a teenage boy. His arms hung easily at his sides, his stance casual and well-balanced. The awkward, jittery boy he had been, a boy who was always looking over his shoulder, was gone.

  Good.

  He turned away from the mirror and walked over to the metal cases sitting on the bench. One was the size of a laptop case, the other a lot bigger. He opened the smaller one first, and his eyes lit up when he saw its contents.

  Lying in hollows of molded black foam were a Glock 17 and a Heckler & Koch MP5, the same guns he had fired out in the Playground. He lifted the weapons out of their slots and held them in his hands. A calm chill spread down his spine, and a voice in the back of his head whispered to him.

  They feel like they belong to you, don’t they? If you put them on, they do. Once you put them on, you never take them off. Not really.

  Jamie knew this was a pivotal moment, the point at which the door to a life that did not involve guns and vampires might shut forever, at which the course of the rest of his life hung in the balance. And there was a part of him that wanted to put the guns down, wanted to walk out of this room in his own clothes. But he knew in his heart it was not an option; if he left his mother would die, he was sure of it, and he would gladly turn the rest of his life over to violence and darkness if it meant he could save her. So he lifted two clips from the foam slots that sat at the edge of the case, loaded the guns, and slipped them into the holsters on either side of his uniform.

  No going back.

  He lifted the layer of foam that had held the guns out of the case, sure he knew what was going to be lying beneath it. He was right. A metal stake with a black rubber handle lay next to a gleaming T-Bone and a black gas tank. He lifted them from the foam, slid the stake into the loop on his belt, but he did not attach the T-Bone; instead he opened the second case.

  Springs pushed four metal wire grids up into a set of shelves half the width of the case, in which lay the components of the Blacklight body armor. Beside the shelves sat a jet-black helmet with a purple visor. Jamie looked at it but did not reach out and touch it. The helmet seemed to radiate danger and power, and for a moment, he was scared of it.

  Too late. Too late for that.

  He knew that was true.

  He knew that was true.

  It was too late.

  Jamie reached out and slid his hand over the smooth metal of the helmet, as if to prove he was not afraid of it, then closed both the cases, picked them up over the protests of his aching arms, and walked out of the changing room.

  Terry was waiting for him in the Playground. The instructor looked Jamie up and down as he entered, a faint smile creeping into the corners of his mouth, then he extended his hand toward Jamie, who took it immediately. They shook.

  “You did well,” Terry said. “Better than anyone could have expected, even me, and I’ve been doing this for a long time. Keep your eyes open, be aware of your surroundings, and remember what happened in the shed. You’ll be all right out there.”

  Jamie thanked him. He stood where he was, waiting to see if there was more to be said, but Terry nodded toward the exit and said, “Dismissed.” Jamie nodded, picked up the case, turned sharply on his heels, and headed for the door. He was about to leave when Terry spoke again.

  “Don’t listen to what anyone says about your dad. You can’t change what he did, you can’t change what people think of him. But you can change what they think about you. So go and do it.”

  Jamie turned back to reply, but Terry was already striding away down the Playground, his back to the boy. The door marked EXIT slid open and Jamie walked through it.

  Frankenstein was waiting on the other side. “There are some people who want to meet you,” he said. “Come with me.”

  Frankenstein led Jamie up one level and through a winding series of corridors before stopping in front of a pair of double doors. Engraved on a brass plaque on the wall next to them were the words OFFICER’S MESS. Jamie read them and frowned.

  “I can’t go in there,” he said.

  “You are my guest,” replied Frankenstein. “So, yes, you can.” He pushed open one of the doors and stepped through it. Jamie followed him after a second or two, looking around nervously.

  A chorus of greetings filled the air as the door closed behind him. The source of the noise was a cluster of armchairs arranged in a loose arc around a vast flat-screen television. Frankenstein raised a hand in greeting, and the occupants of the chairs all rose and made toward them. Jamie had a moment to cast his eyes around the room before he was surrounded.

  The mess was large and almost square. Along one wall ran a beautiful wooden bar, behind which stood two immaculately dressed barmen, their faces masks of professional serenity, even as the room exploded into noise and movement around them. The middle of the room was given over to a number of low wooden tables, some round, some rectangular, around which more armchairs were gathered. Not many of the chairs were occupied, but the men and women in the ones that were had all turned around to see what the fuss was about. The tables were covered in backgammon sets, chessboards, unfinished card games, and glasses and bottles of every shape and size. At the far end of the mess was a long wooden dining table with at least twelve chairs down either side of it. In the wall beyond the table were two dark wooden doors, on which DINING 1 and DINING 2 were stenciled in flamboyant gold script. Jamie had never been in a gentlemen’s club, but he had an idea that he was looking at something very close to one now. The air was thick with cigarette and pipe smoke, and the
heady scents of wine, port, and brandy. Then Jamie was surrounded by noise and extended hands, and he focused on the men around him.

  “Don’t smother the boy,” said Frankenstein, but he was smiling as he did so. “Jamie, let me introduce you to some of my colleagues. Thomas Morris.”

  A man in his late twenties stepped forward and offered a hand, which Jamie accepted. Morris wore a Blacklight uniform, with an ancient-looking bowie knife hanging loosely from his belt. He grinned at Jamie, then clapped him hard on the back.

  “Thought you were going to do it,” he said, excitedly. “I really did. No one ever has, not the first time, but I thought you were. Can’t believe the girl from the shed got you.”

  His smile widened, and Jamie felt one of his own spread across his face. The man’s excitement was contagious.

  “Christian Gonzalez.”

  Morris stepped aside, and an extremely handsome Latino man replaced him. Jamie guessed that he was in his forties, but he could have been much younger; black hair fell casually across the dark skin of his forehead, and his eyes shone with vitality. They shook hands.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Gonzalez said. “My father wanted very much to be here, but he was called away to Germany. He asked me to pass on his congratulations on your performance, to which I add my own.”

  “Thank you,” said Jamie. “Please thank your father as well.”

  The man said that he would and stepped aside.

  Jamie’s head was spinning. The warmth of these greetings—the happiness in the faces of these men—was so different from the majority of the treatment he had received since Frankenstein had rescued him, that it brought a thick lump into his throat.

  “Cal Holmwood.”

  The name was instantly familiar to Jamie, and he looked at the man who approached him with great curiosity.

  A descendant of the founders. Like me.

  This member of the legendary Holmwood family was a small, neat man in his thirties. He wore clear, rimless glasses, and he had the face of an academic rather than a soldier, but when Jamie took his outstretched hand, the grip was strong.